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in showing her gratitude she’d ceded some ground to me she wished she hadn’t. In our silence she walked upright and reserved for the first time. In the quiet of the haze lifting off the river, the air lightened between us. I noted something I’d not seen on that evening of our first meeting: In Françoise’s ears were earrings similar to those my mother wore—pellucid amber, shaped like playing marbles, casting tawny shadows on her cheek. Mist grew thick around the yellow glowing gaslights, comingled with Françoise’s earrings. I found myself telling her that my mother had earrings just like the ones she wore.
    â€œIt’s not a good idea,” she said, “to tell a girl you’ve just met that she reminds you of your mother.”
    I spent some of the wad Johann Schmidt had gifted me on dinner and she talked to me about music I’d never heard of.
    â€œBill Monroe is not only the greatest American folksinger,” she said. “When he was a young boy, he was cross-eyed. He could not see. This is why he learned to play the mandolin the way he did.” She paused and took a breath. “When I was a child, I was cross-eyed, too. My mother saved all her earnings for many years. We had my eyes fixed. I believe it is why I can hear the music of Bill Monroe so clearly. But you can’t tell they were ever crossed, can you.”
    â€œNo,” I said. Over the smell of meat I could detect the heavy scent of patchouli oil on her skin. “No, I would not ever have known.”
    5.
    One night two Saturdays later, after her set ended, Françoise asked me if I would like to accompany her to a party. She led me ten blocks into the thick of the city and over to Rochussen. Two girls Françoise’s age awaited us. They were her bandmate Greta and their friend Rosemary. The party would be just the four of us, Françoise explained on our walk over. When for the first time I asked her what her friends did, how she knew them, she simply looked at me.
    â€œWe work in the brothel,” she said. “We play with our band there at times. And.”
    I put my hands into my coat pockets and pushed my fingers against my palms. In Greta’s flat, Bill Monroe was on the phonograph. We drank wine thin as vinegar. Greta arose to dance and pulled me up alongside her. I protested with the little Dutch I had—I told her I was not a dancer, that I would prefer to watch. While my facility with Dutch wasn’t enough to let me argue with them, I could comprehend their conversation.
    â€œSo he is that kind, is he?” Greta said.
    â€œI haven’t yet discovered what kind he is,” Françoise said.
    â€œYou’ll have to find out yourselves,” I said.
    I stood up and took Greta’s hand. Did I imagine I was my tepid father in those moments of action, slipping along the Elbe away from my mother’s flirtations? I didn’t. I pictured myself a painter unafraid to stand in another man’s home without a stitch of clothing, my paint-splattered trousers on his floor, attempting to speak reason to his son. Greta was a substantial girl, her brown hair twisted up like a bundle of kindling. She changed the record to some big-band music and danced up close to me while Rosemary moved against Françoise on the velvet-upholstered sofa on the opposite side of the room.
    Rosemary stood and began to dance behind Greta. Then her hands were up under Greta’s shirt. Greta began to kiss Rosemary. I had never seen women kiss each other. They grew more sensual. Rosemary lay Greta down and undressed her, then put her face down into Greta’s lap and pleasured her until she let out a little shriek. This was the first time I had ever seen female genitalia, let alone tended to so. Françoise was watching along with me, and without giving me time to anticipate it, she kissed me. She’d had a lot of wine. I’d had a lot of wine.
    â€œTake me back into